“And he did that, plus some.”
It was true. Growl was flourishing, garnering all sorts of great press as an innovative, affordable, healthy alternative to the big burger places.
Yet . . . “Trust him? Isn’t Bill a co-owner? Fifty-fifty?
Didn’t he have as much to lose as Russ if Growl failed?”
“Not at first. It was seventy-five, twenty-five,” Lindsey said. “We couldn’t afford to go in halfway right off. It wasn’t until last year that we could buy out the other twenty-five percent.”
It sounded to me as if there was a soft side to Russ no one ever got to see. Especially if he’d taken a chance with Bill.
But I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been a mistake to trust Bill Lockhart. There was just something about him that put me off.
Maybe it was because I’d never go spending twenty thousand dollars out of the goodness of my heart.
Who had that kind of money to throw around?
Had Russ? Would he have done the same if the situation were reversed?
123
I thought back to differences between the Grabinskys’
house and the Lockharts’. Bill and Lindsey’s said money all the way down to the hanging baskets and freshly painted trim on their house, while the Grabinskys’ had rusting wrought-iron railings and tattered throw blankets.
Hmm.
Had Russ really been an Ebenezer? Or could it be that Bill was fiddling with the books?
The accounting books!
I bolted out of my chair, nearly choking myself on the telephone cord. Russ had taken the account books home—
and Bill desperately wanted them back.
Coincidence?
I had a strict commandment not to believe in coincidences.
I wasn’t about to go breaking it now.
Quickly saying my good-byes, I hung up and looked at my watch. I needed to get over to Deanna’s mini before she finished. Then I wanted to go see Greta Grabinsky. Maybe even get a peek at those books while I tried to talk her out of suing me.
Fourteen
I searched for a parking spot near the Sandruzzis’ house and finally found one down the block, behind an unmarked TBS truck.
The Sandruzzis were a young, married, double income couple, and it was Amy Sandruzzi’s birthday. In addition to a huge surprise party, her husband Darryl had hired TBS.
The mini was actually taking place in the front yard, spruc-ing up lackluster curb appeal.
As I walked along the street’s edge—there were no sidewalks in this older part of town—I could see that the makeover was just about done.
I stood between a parked minivan and a TBS pickup, taking it all in. The house was a traditional ranch, center entrance, low roof. Nothing too exciting, but in good condition. It had been recently painted a soft yellow, much like my new bedroom.
Which got me thinking about my bed.
And Bobby in it.
And that I was meeting him tonight.
So we could talk.
Ack.
125
I pushed that out of my mind and focused on the Sandruzzis’ yard transformation.
Deanna had done an excellent job. Her design had included tearing out the old concrete walkway and replacing it with a new brick one, painting the concrete landing, and bordering the now curving path with flower beds on each side.
Beautiful bright-leafed coleus and bluish purple fanflowers glowed against fresh mulch. Japanese holly bushes, an evergreen shrub with small shiny leaves, and rhododendrons—the evergreen Lee’s dark purple—added to the visual appeal. To the right of the front door Deanna had added a trellis between two single hung windows, and a clematis had been planted at its base, its spindly fingers already searching for something to grab onto. Under the family room’s large picture window Deanna had added a long window box, filled with blue wave petunias. Just petunias. Against the yellow background, the simplicity was stunning.
